is the emotion felt by the reader which in part is created by the word choice and description of the writer, but is unique to and influenced by each reader which, in some ways, is why certain pieces are powerful for some readers more so than others.  Look for it here:

The Chairs that No One Sits In by Billy Collins

Snow Globe by S.M.(M).L.

Look without, 

snow drops on our silent moment.
One sleeps soundly, at peace 
with what will come, so thoughtful
his heart filled with kindness.
One fights desperately, not to miss
a second of the exuberant life,
so bold within her.

The snow piles high, swirls.

We are cozy and calm, quiet,
mostly.  Whole. For now.
Outside it just keeps piling up.  
Insulate us in our snow globe
while the world twists
and shakes around us.
We'll stay here with you, 
little ones, restless and 
restful, our souls full,
​
look within.  

simply, is a five-line poem, but a unique twist of such a poem is to have the number of words in the number of the line:  line one, one word (the title), line two, two words, a description, line three, three words that tell the action, line four, four words that express emotion, and line 5 recalls the title in a single word. There are many variations of this type of poetry, so no need to be structure bound, a quick way to express for the writer, and a sudden glimpse for the reader.  Look for it here:

The Sun-Dial by Adelaide Crapsey

is 5 unstressed syllables followed by 5 stressed syllables per line, used by playwrights like Shakespeare because it resembles the rhythms of speech, and it lends itself to memory, unrhymed it is called Blank Verse, but when it follows a pattern of rhyme consisting of fourteen lines, it becomes a sonnet. Look for it here:

Schoolboys in Winter by John Clare

Hibernate by S.M.(M).L.

Winter wraps itself around us with flakes.
Soon we are settled in drifts, beside fires,
snuggled deep into down, books read pile up,
and the frost creeps up from the pane's corners.
Outside the trees are still and sun glitters
in  the many prisms of ice.  Venture
out, find lakes' shores treacherously lengthened.  
Shiver in our scarves and mittens, tremble
our deep sighs of breath come in bursts of white;
back inside, fingers and toes tingle and
warm drinks steam.  Soon enough we start to yawn
and slip back into slumber like the trees
and lake and soil as they patiently wait.  
What comes next will come, whether we sleep or wake.

is what poets do.  If a book is living another life, then a poem is living a brief moment of another life.  By being concise, poets are forced through their art to select the most precise words and ways in which to express an idea, leaving room for the reader to interpret and examine the idea for themselves.  Look for it here:
​
"Just This" by W.S. Merwin

Lunar by S.M.(M).L.

Awake to moonshine
brilliantly superb as she
wanes into morning.
Here she is, a guide
for humanity, explode
from Earth, composed of
this same stuff. We look
on her face, seem to
never turn away, except 
when she is in solitude.
She must go there to
get away, blamed for
cycles and lunacy, but
probably reality.
Inching away, she 
weathers anything
stillness, a bowl of fire,
or a mirror, no matter.
However we perceive her
we dance, a partner
swung round our dizzying
existence, wax, wane
until we burn ourselves out.

is the opposite of anaphora.  Instead of the repetition of a single word or phrase at the beginning of the line, it is repeated at the end.  The effect is often a resonating tone left with the reader.  Together, the use of anaphora and epistrophe are called symploce.  Look for it here:

"From Blossoms" by Li-Young Lee

Stop by S.M.(M).L.

Sometimes the world doesn't stop
never does the world stop
on and on, spinning and spinning,
its centrifuge a molten core, a heart
beaten upon by billions of trembling feet,
by oceans of fear and terror pushing and 
pulling.  By time ticking and ticking and never stopping.

Sometimes the world doesn't stop,
and you need it to; you need winds to quiet, 
storms to calm, missiles to not be shooting
beyond satellites, people to close their
mouths, open their eyes, and just shut up.
Just shut up, inside yourself, hardened 
around your own molten core, smoldering,
learning to be quiet, calm, weathering.

Sometimes the world doesn't stop,
but instead implodes; hills shudder and
mountains crumble, rivers rage and 
volcanoes explode--panic ensues all around,
and you wonder why you just didn't stop,
get quiet, and sit in solitude before you made this mess.

Sometimes the world doesn't stop, 
but you should, shut up.